


whatever happens there's money in the mattress

by vinemaple



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Las Vegas Wedding, M/M, dumbasses to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:07:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21690637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinemaple/pseuds/vinemaple
Summary: “This is a...it’s a fucking certificate, Pat.”“Like, a coupon?”“No. Like, marriage. For marriage."---When you accidentally marry your bro in Vegas after your team's knocked out of the playoffs.
Relationships: Travis Konecny/Nolan Patrick
Comments: 46
Kudos: 274





	whatever happens there's money in the mattress

**Author's Note:**

> i heard waking up in vegas by katy perry in a burger place and this vision came to me like i imagine god came to moses via burning bush
> 
> shoutout to nolan patrick for being the most illusive indescribable bitch i've ever had the displeasure of psychoanalyzing! is it fun for you, being unknowable, you absolute virgo? flat like paper and then the harder i think about it he turns into fractal broccoli. hate you, babey 
> 
> this is the first fic i've written since 2015 lmao so bear with me
> 
> title from "i'm your wreck" by mt joy

Claude Giroux is chasing four ibuprofen with a bottle of Gatorade when Laughts calls from behind the door, “Dude. We can’t find TK or Patty.” 

Claude burps Don Julio vapor into the bathroom sink, not looking up. “Pool.”

“Nah. Raff says they’re not down there.”

“Snap said they were, like, an hour ago.”

“Not anymore, G.” Laughts’ usual monotone wavers.

“Well, did you try the buffet?” 

“Not there. Not at the bar or club. Their room’s empty and they aren’t answering calls either. Fucking voicemail’s full.” 

Claude stares into the mirror, condemning the sprite of his younger self with a weary groan and not for the first time in the past twenty-four hours thinks he’s too old for this. “Fucking dipshits.” 

* * *

The Flyers cup run ends in the third round. 

A double overtime Game 7 loss to the Golden Knights in Vegas.

Beaten and bruised to hell, Nolan Patrick won’t remember everything that happens afterwards but some things come back.

Like G grabbing the scruff of his neck outside the bar, holding their sweaty foreheads together. The way he said, _ Hey _ to get Nolan’s eyes. _ It’s not on you, kay? _

Jake wrapping Oskar and Sanny under his arms, shouting, _ So fucking good, like whole dick out there. That’s the way to play, fucking sexy plays, yeah _ ? The music vibrating through his sneakers. _ Fuck the Knights. Next year, eh baby? Eh? _

Plastic baggies. _ Use your nail, yeah whatever, you got it _.

The neon bar lights refracting off the shot glasses. Raffl’s tongue out. 

Myers parting the entire club, a patch of sweat darkening between his shoulder blades.

_ You’ve got no game. Stop, it’s embarrassing _.

Nolan laughing deep in his belly. No more meal plans, too much beer before liquor; the last seconds on the bench during second OT when he couldn’t even stand up to watch play, lactic acid curdling in his thighs, and _ fuck- _-turnover. Water leaking out his panting mouth, a salty upper lip.

_ Go have fun with your team, honey. Tell Trav we said hi. _

Hartsy bowed down on the ice as the Vegas crowd screamed. 

Teeks holding Nolan’s hair back, one arm across his chest so he doesn’t pitch forward into the toilet. Palm across his collarbone (the one he broke twice). _ You got it, baby, there ya go. That’s good. _Eyes streaming from the acidity. 

Nisky cupping his mouth to talk to his wife on the phone in the hotel hallway. Big toenail rotting off, ice pack staining his nightshirt. _ You guys go ahead. _

_ Fleury’s a fucking sieve, watch this. What a shitstain _.

Coach shouting lines. Popping gum. Breathing sticks of ammonia, _ Lets go boys lets go boys lets go _.

Drifting off in the pool chairs. Teeks half-asleep, _ I think they have dogs for that stuff. We could find you one _. 

_ Fuck, turnover. _

_ Close the gap, the FUCKING GAP _. 

Hayes patting Nolan on the head and a feeling of deep belonging settling into the base of his spine, into the booth made of vinyl. 

_ My song, this is my song, bay-bay! _

_ You like this trash? _

Someone else’s spit in his mouth, hot then drying cold on his neck.

Fishing ice from a drink to his swollen black eye. Laughts slurring, _ Fuck Engelland. Fuck that guy. _

Some girl at the bar touching his elbow, then arm, _ So, what do you do? _

_ Clear the goddamn crease. _

_ Ref, are you fucking blind? Are you? _

Now he’s in a church pew, leg bouncing. Not sober, but enough that what he’s about to do makes sense. “This is what I want. I want to do this, let’s do it.” 

“You know I meant what I said right, babe? Even if you don’t feel--You don’t have to do this just because--”

“I know. Yeah, I know. I want to. Now hold my fucking…” he clasps their fingers together, slick with sweat.

Nolan thinks about the vows. To have and to hold. And, _ fuck_, he wants both so badly. Just never thought it’d be like this, but now that it’s happening nothing else seems plausible.

* * *

Five hours later Nolan rolls phlegm on his tongue, blinking awake into the brightness of their room. Too bright even behind the sunglasses. 

TK is breathing heavily on Nolan’s arm and doesn’t stop when Nolan elbows him. He has his own beanbag, for god’s sake.

The sign hanging off the TV flutters and Nolan stares at it long enough that he can read it’s on sale for _ $326.90 not including tax _when he looks up and there’s a teenage boy he doesn’t recognize.

“Sorry, what?” 

“I said we’re gonna have to ask you to leave the showroom, sir, if you’re not...um,” he looks nervous. “If you’re done browsing. There are other families who would like to try the room’s... amenities.”

Not far behind the kid is a security guard talking into a radio. Nolan shoves his sunglasses up into his hair before realizing it’s a bad fucking idea and lets them slide back onto his face. The fluorescents blast through his retinas into the back of his skull.

“Teeks. Teeks, bro.” Nolan thumps his teammate in the chest and TK groans. “We gotta go, bro. Like, right now. Get up.” Nolan winces at the kid who continues to hover and then shoves TK bodily off the beanbag. 

“Pat, seriously--” TK croaks with indignation before catching sight of the vest kid. He squints like an elderly dog, hair sticking to the drool at the corner of his mouth. “Who is that.” 

Vest kid flushes, not sure where to look. “Sir, this is an Ikea.”

Nolan stands up, sobriety belied by how he sways slightly on the spot. _ You’re fine, you’re totally chill _, he thinks to himself. Beside him, TK is on all fours grappling with the carpet, gravity, and God. 

“I’m good,” the tiny winger says.

“Didn’t ask, bud.”

Outside, Nolan hocks a loogie onto the sidewalk, much to the chagrin of a lady pushing a large furniture cart. 

Sifting through the headache, images from last night come to him erratically and out of order. Ugh, his brain feels like scrambled eggs.

Teeks hunches over, hands on knees. “Pats, what in the hell is even going on. How did we even...I don’t remember... We were at the bar. But then--_ Which fucking one, though? _” He tugs at his hair, “I feel like ass.”

One hand rubbing the greasy skin of his eyelid (the unblackened one), the other pats his pockets for a phone. Nolan finds it, drops it, then realizes the battery is dead. 

“Teeks, gimme your phone.”

Turning it on he sees by some miracle it has three percent. Just enough. 

Wiping the screen, Nolan types in the password (“111111”). He’s about to call an Uber to get them out of this godforsaken Ikea parking lot when all TK’s unread messages start popping up.

From the boys (the last of which was twenty minutes ago: _ ok dumbass this isn’t the hangover seriously where are you guys. Plane leaves at 4 _) to old teammates and family members sending condolences--all of which Nolan ignores, raking sweat off his forehead and up into his hair. 

But then there’s Travis’s mom. The message starts with _ And just know we’re so proud of you no m… _

He doesn’t need to read the whole message, the preview’s enough to make Nolan’s hands shake. 

His mom and dad said the same thing last night. When he laid down on the hotel bed face first, snot soaking into the comforter as he let their voices wash over him. They read the silence on the line for what it was. _ So, so proud, Nolan. Shh. Hey, c’mon, bud. None of that. _ He hated how much comfort it gave him to hear their voices gentle like when he was younger. _ You boys did everything right, sometimes you just get a bad bounce. It’ll be okay, sweetheart. You played great. Shh _. 

Nolan remembers the sound of his shot ringing off the post on his last shift. Heaving on the bench, too tired to break his stick. Carter sliding across in time to stop the shot, but the goal light coming on anyway. 

“Dad got out the plow and shovels again yesterday,” mom said after they finally talked about the game (dad talked, Nolan listened). “Grandma can’t shovel anymore, obviously, so he went over. Nothing much is happening here,” she chuckled, so far from the dry heat of Vegas. “Well, you know, baby. Not a lot.” 

He’s almost relieved when Teeks’ phone craps out in the middle of his Uber order. It’s childish but suddenly he doesn’t want to see the rest of the boys or think about the game anymore. Wishes instead that he were home in Winnipeg. Not even on the lake, but just on the basement floor with the Xbox, his sisters’ footsteps barely audible from two floors up. He wouldn’t need to talk to anyone, but it would be enough to know they were there.

He remembers when he was drafted to Brandon. That was when the buzz started to become real, not just friends of his dad’s telling him he was taking after his old man. Nolan was used to attention. But he learned from a young age that there were different kinds.

Like, the newspapers would write articles on the Bantam Draft, or his name would pop up in scores or captions. _ Center Patrick (left) with a shot attempt _ . Journalists would call the house, scouts would come to his games and other kids’ parents would pat him on the back, saying his name. _ Atta boy, Nolan _. He’d hear it a lot. After a certain age he stopped thinking it was only his mom or his sisters, stopped turning at the sound of it. 

_ Nolan Patrick. Nah, from the Peg. _

_ Those scouts from--Yeah. Probably for Patrick. _

_ Nolan’s having himself a season, eh. _

But it’s not just the journalists, not just the hockey. 

In high school girls would try to talk to him, breaking through the levee of other hockey boys. They’d ask him questions. About games or classes they shared. Heat would come into his face and his hoodie would grow humid. Everyone would look at him because people did that a lot. Because of hockey, but not just the hockey. 

In these moments it felt like his vision was sunk deep into his skull and if he made eye contact with anyone he’d die. He didn’t know what they wanted, so he learned to get away with saying nothing. And the boys began to think it was some big deal whenever they were able to get his attention. Like it was special or something. Like he was. 

Sometimes Nolan thinks his hockey career is just other peoples’ ideas of him. They started to think he was important and so he let them.

Nolan pinches the sweaty fabric from his lower back, hating his busted body in so many ways but preeminently the B.O. wafting from inside his shirt. Like seriously bad salsa and booze.

Teeks is crouched to the cement, fingertips pressed to the ground like he’s feeling the earth’s vibrations or some shit. He stands, all five feet of him, yawning. “I need something greasy, like, yesterday.” 

“Same.” Nolan seriously feels lightheaded. Not to mention every time his stomach growls it makes him burp up an iota of bile. Nolan tucks the phone in TK’s back pocket, squeezing his hip. “C’mon, babe. There’s gotta be something close.”

“You call an Uber?”

“Nah, your battery died, so we’re pretty much fucked.” Nolan feels for his wallet, fingers grabbing at a dozen crumpled receipts. He pulls them all out, keeping in stride with TK, careful not to let any flutter away in the breeze. The boys have made fun of him for keeping his receipts, but he likes physical reminders especially after the headaches. Once while doped up on migraine medication he ordered a ten pack of boxers three separate times in the same week. “Hey, what’s this? Can you read it, I don’t have my glasses.”

TK laughs, voice lowering. “‘I don’t have my glasses.’ God, I fucking love it when you can’t do shit.”

Nolan shoves him off the curb. “I do shit all the time.”

“Oh yeah, like last night?” he mimes wristing a shot. “_ Ping _.” 

Nolan barks a laugh, “Ouch, bro. Kinda real there. Little too soon to be grinding my gears--” 

“Wait.” Teeks’ hand snakes around Nolan’s forearm, jerking him to a halt. “Dude. Wait.”

“What. What?”

“This is a...it’s a fucking certificate, Pat.”

“Like, a coupon?”

“No. Like, marriage. For marriage. See it says--”

“I can’t see shit. You keep moving it around, stop.” Nolan squints, lifting up his sunglasses. “Oh shit, that’s...kinda legit. Maybe we can use, like, a phone book and find who--”

“A phone book? They don’t make those anymore.”

“Um yeah they do, my grandma gets them.”

“You and your grandma in friggin’ _ Manitoba _, bud, there ya go--” Teeks trips over his sliders, “Fuck!” 

“Do you walk much?” But TK’s staring at the paper, certificate, whatever, with a look of abject shock on his face. “What? Lemme see. Fuck, I can’t really...the print’s too small…”

TK’s eyebrows are crooked in bemusement. “Patty, it’s you. It’s yours, like, your name’s on here, buddy.”

“Lemme see. Give it--where, here?” Nolan’s tracing the words with his finger, trying to make out the script. But that’s definitely his signature, he’s spent enough time signing sticks and pucks to not know it instinctively. 

“This has gotta be a joke, or like a prank. G or someone just messing around.”

“Why would they do that? When would they have even had the time…”

“It’s just a joke thing, Pat. I mean, they’re always saying how we’re like, together or whatever. It’s just them screwing with us.”

Nolan scowls, “Us?”

Travis rubs his neck, not meeting Nolan’s eyes. “Yeah, bud. It’s just a prank, I’m telling you…we wouldn’t have gotten...I mean…” 

* * *

The Flyers’ captain snatches four, maybe five hours of sleep. 

By noon Claude has shit, shaved the playoff beard, and force fed Farabee three pancakes. The kid looks like garbage. Frost is out of commission from where he sits on the other side of Jake, his thousand yard stare boring into the dining room floor. Claude keeps glancing at him for signs of pukage. 

“Raff _ supposed _ to be babysitting--” Jake waves one hand with a European flourish, flute of mimosa bubbling in the other. Claude can’t see where his eyes are behind the large, 70s Ray-Bans. “These fucking kids, man. We never pulled crap like this. We’d be dead. Pronger would have rocked our shit.”

Claude swirls a soggy bite of pancake in more syrup. Farabee whines, but opens anyway. He tries to hold the fork on his own, but Claude flicks the rookie’s hand out of the way. “So last place we can confirm they were was the pool?”

Jake sips his mimosa carefully around his mustache. “Coots saw them in the elevator going back up. Or saw a Snap of them, something.” 

That information does little to assuage his anxiety and Claude scrolls the groupchat, hoping for a clue. The last message Patty sent was: 

_ has anyone seen my roomkey card _

at 2:56am that was quickly swallowed by Frost posting the same five pictures of Myers’ forehead. Not exactly reassuring.

Claude rolls his ankle gingerly underneath the table. 

It had been bothering him since Game 2 when it got caught awkwardly along the boards. It couldn’t hold any of his weight and Claude thought he was finished. But in between periods the trainer gave him a shot of cortisol and a rag to bite down on like some Soviet dungeon master. Then he began to shove the swelling up Claude’s leg.

He played on it for five more games, but it wasn’t enough to beat the Golden Knights. 

At his age, he didn’t know how many more chances he was going to get. He’d been closer to a Cup yesterday than he’d been in a decade. Somehow losing in the 2010 finals hurt less than this, his youthful hubris like a salve for failure. _ I’ll be back_, he remembers thinking in the handshake line, stupid and twenty-two. _ Fuck this_. _ I’ll be back_.

Now, he’s not so sure. 

After last night’s loss, he called Ry from the bathroom of his hotel room, allowing himself a few moments to dissolve, lulled by the sound of her voice. He was so, so tired. In his complete and total exhaustion even self-hatred was abated to revisit another day. It could wait. 

As he got dressed to go out, Claude thought about his baby and his wife. They were still more important than hockey, than anything. Body sore and heart mercilessly heavy, it was that thought reassured him as he got into the car with the boys, got the first of the drinks and then, rather quickly, got shitfaced. It was reassuring that life would go on, Stanley Cup or no, and he just needed to buck up and rise to whatever occasion. Diapers, morning skates, all of it. 

But those occasions were on hiatus for a few more hours. 

Claude is allowed to sulk, okay. He hates losing. And a third round, Game 7 double OT loss is the worst goddamn loss. 

He’s shoving a consolatory bite of pancake into his mouth when Oskar’s name pops up on his phone screen. The vibration rattles the glassware on the table. Frosty looks green and keels forward slightly, arms tight to his stomach. Claude snaps his fingers at Jake, and nods to Frost before pressing speaker. 

Oskar’s accent warbles out of the phone like some kind of Swedish oracle. “G, we got ‘em. Both their phones died, but some asshole on twitter saw them in McDonalds.” Oskar says it like _ Meck Dunolls _. The relief Claude feels is mirrored on Jake’s face. “You might want to call PR though, Cap.” 

“Seriously?” It’s already absolute balls that they lost--to _ Vegas _ of all teams; fuck Fleury, if Claude has to see his impish grin again it’ll be too soon--now he has to clean up these jerkoffs’ mess. 

Oskar’s voice is jumbled through the speaker. Claude can’t hear. “Oskar, hold up. What’d--?” 

“I said,” Oskar sounds regretful, sighs. “We think--umhm--they. We don’t know if it’s fully...legal. But. Like lee-gully.” Oskar struggles, “Legally. We don’t know how, G. They just have this paper and it says--”

“Oskar, not in front of the Uber--_ Sorry, man _\--we’re not a couple of dumbshits...fucking Sens--” Raff shouts in the background. “Just text it to him.”

Oskar cuts in, “It’s already on twitter!”

“_Let me tell him--I have to be the one to tell him. It’s my responsibility! _”

“Shut the fuck up, Konecny. You are not seriously saying shit right now. Sit the fuck down, Teeks. _ Fuck_.” Raff exhales into the phone. “We’ll be there in five, G. But definitely call Emma. She’ll know how to handle this, or whatever. Actually in like two minutes.” Raffl hangs up. The call time blinks on Claude’s screen then fades.

Claude opens twitter with mild dread to see what Patty and TK could have possibly done in the past four hours to require a call to PR. 

Spitin’ Chiclets

**@spittinchiclets**

Is this for real? 

\--

**@knightsdanglezz**

koneckny and patrick from the flyers in this mickey ds right now, wtf ??? #VegasBorn

The video is clearly TK and Patty. No way PR could claim it’s not them. Nolan’s shiner from Engelland is in profile, barely healed since Game 4. 

Even pixelated, they’re arguing: Nolan’s arms are folded across his chest, one hand waving outward. TK has both of his up in the air, supplicant, one hand curled around a large fry. But Claude can’t even think about the fries or the McDonald’s customers in the background obviously staring. He’s too busy thinking about what TK is yelling, mouth half full of fries.

_ It’s fine, Pat, we’ll get it annulled, we’ll-- _

_ And how do we fucking do that? _

_ We’ll go back and, like, pay off the priest-- _

_ Not what it’s called. _

_ What? _

_ It’s a fucking minister. _

  
  


Jake scoffs. “This is a joke--they can’t have actually...G?” 

But Claude is staring at his liney immortalized in some dude’s twitter feed. His piece of shit right winger who thought a prenup was the same thing as a tummy-tuck his rookie year.

It’s dead silent at the table. People’s conversations drift around them, merrily. 

“That McDonalds is on the other side of Vegas. How did they even...?” Farabee drifts off, realizing the question is either too rational for the situation or that no one can answer. 

Frost mumbles something unintelligible. Jake just has time to lurch to his feet, saying _ Kid, hold it, hold it-- _ when vomit splatters wetly on the dining room tile. A woman gasps and Jake swears _ I’m so fucking done, G, I’m so fucking done with all this crap. Fuck the Knights, pieces of shit _.

Claude closes his eyes, ankle throbbing, hangover protesting the reality he’s coming to terms with like a Lambroghini coming to terms with a brick wall: surprisingly and then all at once.

* * *

Nolan doesn’t remember everything from the night of the loss, but bits and pieces have come back. 

When they got back to the hotel after Oskar and Raff picked them up outside of McDonalds, Teeks went to get some ice for his shoulder. Nolan stepped onto the carpet to find it wet and mushy. Only then does he remember coming up from the pool, soaking the elevator and their hallway, no towels and in just their underwear, cradling the rest of their clothes, water running down their legs onto the floor. The curl of wet hair behind Teeks’ ear steadily dripping onto his shoulder and Nolan tracking the water as it ran all the way down his back into the waistband of his boxers.

He remembers dazedly prodding his bruised ribs in front of the mirror and Teeks saying, “Fuck, Patty. That’s a keeper.” Nolan doesn’t flinch when Teeks runs a hand across saying “Gonna be even worse tomorrow.” but his blood pumps twice as fast.

* * *

_ I think they’re gonna trade me. _

_ Pats, shut up. Seriously. _

_ They could get something decent back. Maybe a prospect, some picks. _

_You can’t think like that. _

_ I just. I don’t wanna leave. _

_ They’re not gonna. Hey, I’m serious. Listen to me. After your ‘yoffs, no fucking way. You’re not going anywhere. Hey, babe, don’t. Shhh. _

_ I just--I feel like shit all the time, Trav. _

_ You didn’t battle that hard to get back just to be traded. _

_I really don’t wanna go. _

_ You’re not. Shh. You’re not going anywhere. _

_ Okay. _

_ You’re not going anywhere and I’m not going anywhere. I’m right fucking here, okay? _

_ Okay. _

* * *

“So you’re alright with this?” TK’s next to him on the couch fiddling with the bottom of his tie. “Just making sure this is what you want.” 

Nolan’s struggles to loosen his. “An annulment would probably be best, yeah. I mean.” But Nolan doesn’t know what he means and the sentence hangs unfinished. 

At the meeting, PR and their lawyers advised them to let the whole thing ride out as a joke, to neither confirm nor deny anything and sign the papers as soon as they’re done processing in Clark County. 

It's so quiet that he hears the people upstairs walking across the living room.

Nolan's mouth parting is the loudest thing in the apartment. “Hey. Actually. Can we wait? Just...for a while.”

Teeks doesn’t ask why. He slides their hands together and says, “Pat, I meant what I said. Whatever you need, babe.”


End file.
